


All I want for Christmas

by shezinafez



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Greg's POV, M/M, Mycroft's POV, Short & Sweet, Slow Burn, breathtaking government employees, dashingly attractive DIs, lots of lovesickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shezinafez/pseuds/shezinafez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Mycroft nor Greg are particularly enamoured with this whole Christmas thing, but over the years it kind of grows on them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! Have some Mystrade to make the season extra joyful ;)
> 
> This is for you Georgia, Happy Christmas lovely xx
> 
> (And a big thank you to Lizzie for her faith in me. I love you guys so much.)

2:13am 25/12/2006

"I absolutely loathe Christmas." 

Disappointingly, saying it aloud to the empty room did not give him the release he'd been looking for. Mycroft Holmes frowned, sending creases chasing across his forehead, before hastily trying to smooth them out. _Don't frown, it'll give you wrinkles._  He sighed. How he hated being told what to do, even by the imaginary voice in his own head that sounded suspiciously like his mother's.

Rubbing a tired hand across his eyes and basking in the momentary oblivion it brought, he heard someone enter the waiting-room through the lilac double doors behind him. Another consultant no doubt. It had been - he looked at his watch, the one regularly ticking certainty in this infernal mess - four hours. He felt as if it could have been a hundred, and Mycroft was not a man prone to hyperbole, if he did say so himself. 

The man behind him coughed awkwardly, and Mycroft despaired of ever getting any solid information out of these fools. 

"I hate Christmas too."

Mycroft jerked around, utterly surprised, to see a greying police officer - he had obviously not had time to change out of his uniform properly as he was still wearing the distinctive police shirt, although the collar was a askew - just standing there looking at him. Mycroft tilted his head and looked back. Two could play at this game, and Mycroft was not accustomed to consenting defeat, even in the early hours of the morning.

"Even by my standards, though, this is an awful start to Christmas day." The man grimaced in a conspiratory manner, as if they shared something, and Mycroft wondered who he was here for. He wasn't married, and he was obviously not a regular visitor judging by his discomfort. He'd been called there straight from work so whoever it was must mean a lot to him. _Just like you,_  Mycroft's mind added, unbidden. This was not the time to start seeing superficial parallels between himself and some other unfortunate individual, but Mycroft's brilliant mind was exhausted and he was glad of the company despite himself. Although his present company couldn't seem to stop _talking_. His lips tightened in annoyance.

"I couldn't believe it when I got the phone call." The police officer shifted his feet and didn't meet Mycroft's eyes. Interesting. He was feeling guilty. Goodness knows why; guilt was a thoroughly unnecessary emotion that Mycroft avoided if he could possibly help it. It was much too messy an emotion to file away neatly, and therefore had no place in his life.

"...and I recognised the name straight away - who wouldn't - it was the guy who's been butting into our crime scenes for the last couple of weeks. 'Course, I sent him away with a flea in his ear, and now I feel awful." 

Mycroft tilted his head politely; he'd better put this poor man out of his misery. "I do believe you are referring to my little brother."

The man's mouth fell open and a flush began to tinge his cheeks pleasantly pink. Mycroft found himself becoming slightly less displeased with his current company; he really did add a little _je ne sais quoi_ to the room.

"I- I'm so sorry! My God, I just heard and I came straight over..." Mycroft shook his head, cutting off the man's desperate attempts to justify; cutting out the comforting, although Mycroft found it much less tedious when coming from this windswept policeman than from the useless nurse who had shown him in, a lifetime ago now. At least this floundering man seemed genuine.

"Please do not worry yourself," he said as graciously as he could, while his mind screamed _hypocrite._ He hastily shut that part down. _Caring is not an advantage._

"I'm Mycroft Holmes, I take it you are acquainted with Sherlock?"

The man took his proffered hand and shook it warmly.

"Greg. Greg Lestrade. And yeah, well, as of about two weeks ago. He just turned up and started poking around - and we couldn't allow that - I never _dreamed_  he'd..."

"Overdose." Mycroft finished for him blankly, his voice cold and his heart numb.

Why had Sherlock turned to someone else? Why had he, Sherlock's _brother_  not been able to prevent this? _You know why,_ he answered himself, _you just don't like it._

But here was this Mr Lestrade with his apologetic eyes and sincere expression, softly hinting he should be allowed to join Mycroft in his lonely vigil. Mycroft was apparently more tired than he had originally thought, because he found himself warming to the idea of company in this cooly impersonal hospital.

"Sorry."

It seemed that here was a man who could not stop apologising, and Mycroft smiled, betraying his tiredness once again in that he found this amusing rather than dull. 

"Mr Lestrade-"

"Greg, please, it's far too late for Mr Lestrade."

"Gregory, then." 

Greg frowned slightly, shaking his head with a smile, and Mycroft glanced again at his watch for something to do. "And I do believe we may now call it early morning."

Their conversation was cut short as the lilac doors swung open forcefully, revealing a tall doctor in a white coat. Both men looked up expectantly.

A moment passed, the air thickly tense.

"Is he alright?" The words burst out of Greg almost against his will, and Mycroft closed his eyes, overwhelmingly thankful to his new acquaintance for asking what he couldn't. 

"As well as can be expected." Mycroft hated the hint of disapproval in the doctor's voice, and himself for having echoed it so recently.

"His condition is improving and I hope he will be coming round shortly. If you would like to wait to see him I will come for you when he wakes."

Somehow, inexplicably, Mycroft caught Greg's eye. The strength and determination he saw there made him swallow and swear to himself that he would do better next time. If Greg, who had only met Sherlock once, could have the incredible strength to see this through then so could he. Greg nodded, understanding what Mycroft wanted him to say.

"Thank you. Please do - we'll be here." His voice didn't shake, and Mycroft admired him for it; he wasn't sure that he could claim to be up to achieving the same. Mycroft felt like his carefully balanced world was spiralling out of his grip, and he was grasping at strands to try and make some sense of the mess inside his head. _Caring is not an advantage. Look after your brother. Feelings offer no tactical advantage. Take care of Sherlock._

_Play the game, Mycroft._

He must have winced, because suddenly Greg's hand was at his elbow and he was being guided into one of those hideous plastic chairs they keep in hospital waiting rooms. As if his stay wasn't loathsome enough already.

But the warm arm and very alive, breathing man was beside him, his tooth caught on his lower lip and his eyes full of worry, and Mycroft found he didn't mind the unusal sensation of being guided.

"I-" He cleared his throat. _Deplorable manners, Mycroft, finish your sentence properly._

"I'm sorry. It's just." God, how he hated the way his voice had just trembled. Better to say nothing. 

They sat, Mycroft's chest rising and falling rapidly as if he'd run a marathon.

"Shhh, it's ok. Hey, Mycroft - I can call you that, right? He's going to be ok." Greg's voice was as soft and soothing as he could make it, sensing that this man needed something steady right now. He worried at his lip when Mycroft didn't respond.

"I tell you what, when he gets out of hospital I'll let him come to some of our crime scenes. There's a guy who owes me a favour - I'll pull some strings and make it happen. I promise." 

Mycroft Holmes did not often say thank you and genuinely mean it, but this promise, given so generously to those who hardly deserved it - _"a Holmes cares for no one and lets no one care for him" -_  felt like a promise that Sherlock _would_ be well; Mycroft wouldn't have failed at all.

So when he whispered, "Thank you, Gregory," and meant it, part of him hoped that Greg had heard.


	2. Chapter 2

7:38am 25/12/2007

Greg yawned over his rather unappealing toast and decided it could wait; instead he traipsed through his flat to the front door, checking the post out of habit. He paused, looking at the neat envelope on his doormat. Who'd be writing to _him_? The handwriting on the front was ornately scripted, giving it a slightly old-fashioned look, and Greg slid his finger under the flap, curious. 

A smartly minimalist Christmas card was revealed; deep blue with a single sprig of bright emerald holly in the centre. _Merry Christmas_. Greg raised his eyebrows. Bit last minute, although he supposed he couldn't talk. He hadn't sent any Christmas cards this year, and not even because he didn't want to - he genuinely had no one to send to. Greg wandered back into the kitchen and flicked the card open with one hand, picking up his abandoned toast with the other.

_**Although I am not in the practice of habitually distributing festive greetings, I find myself wishing to express my gratitude for your efforts with my brother since this date last year, as I know he won't thank you himself. Do enjoy your break, at any rate.** _

_**\- M.H.** _

He stared at the note for a moment. _M.H._ Mycroft Holmes. That name brought back memories; a year ago today and the longest night of his life, waiting for hours, constantly fearing the worst. And it would have been his fault. He shuddered. If that night had been awful for him, God knows what it would have been like for Sherlock's brother.

The man had been strangely silent, though; in his experience the families either cried or shouted - they were hardly ever so darkly quiet. He was an odd one, that was certain. And now he was sending Christmas cards to Greg! He sighed, running a hand through his stubbornly greying hair, deciding that it was far too early for this kind of thing.

After a very welcome hot shower, Greg shuffled the detritus that had collected on top of the drawers in his living room into a rough stack and propped up the card on top. There. His flat looked thoroughly Christmassy.

Greg glanced at his watch. _8:02_. And he'd already exhausted every possible activity. What did people _do_  at Christmas? Greg hadn't had Christmas at his own home since he'd become a policeman years before, but now, with a prospective DI interveiw on the horizon, he'd been advised to take the day off. _"You work too hard, Greg."_ It seemed everyone wanted to him to cut down on his work. What they clearly didn't realise was that he _loved_  his job. Sure, it sucked when he missed the criminal or overlooked an obvious clue, but as a whole the sleepless nights after a particularly galling day were worth it. Not many people could profess to be making a difference in the world, Greg thought, but more often than not he at least felt like he did.

Greg spent the day cheerfully insulting the sentimental rubbish that saturated Christmas television, eating the mince pies that someone had left for him, and by the evening he'd decided that maybe Christmas wasn't so bad after all. It was certainly a novelty not to have any paperwork to be handed in, even for just a day. 

His mum rang, and he laughed at the appropriate moments and agreed with her and fended off well-meant queries about his relationships. Or lack thereof. Greg always felt like he'd been a disappointment to the woman who'd raised him alone. She clearly wanted grandchildren, or at the very least a stunning daughter-in-law to gossip about Greg with. 

But that particular predicament wasn't something he wanted to think about, especially not today, so he promised to call her more often ("It's been _months_ , Greg, honestly") and dutifully wished her a happy Christmas before hanging up, grateful for the quiet at last.

Greg stretched out across his sofa, wincing as a spring dug into his back. He should think about getting something substantial to eat soon, and for a moment he was overwhelmed with nostalgia as he remembered the days of having someone to cook Christmas dinner for. Revelling in the memory of being needed by someone, Greg didn't notice the telltale sound of someone walking up the stairs to his door, and then the doorbel rang. 

Greg jumped violently to his feet, knocking a mug off the coffee table, which smashed, pieces spinning across the floor. Cursing dirty mugs, Christmas, and all uninvited visitors, he stepped over the shattered remains and opened his front door. 

"Good afternoon."  

Mycroft Holmes was standing on his doorstep, perfectly pressed suit hanging elegantly from his slim frame, leaning lightly on his black umbrella. And it wasn't even raining. Greg gaped at him.

"What- what on earth...?" Something about this man seemed to vaporise his ability to talk normally. But then, Greg was completely shocked; what was _Mycroft Holmes_ , of all people, doing tapping his foot on Greg's dormat on Christmas day? Perhaps something had happened to Sherlock; Holmes senior did not seem the type to pay social calls, so that was the only explanation. 

Greg opened his mouth, worry increasing exponentially as each second passed; Sherlock had been fine when he talked to him - Greg did a quick mental calculation - three days ago. Three days. Was that enough time for someone to relapse? What had Greg done, again, to ruin this man's Christmas?

"Don't worry - Sherlock is fine." Greg gaped at Mycroft, who seemed to have just read his mind.

"In fact, he's at our parents' house for Christmas, so you may rest assured that he is perfectly safe - if bored out of his mind," Mycroft added under his breath, and Greg let out a relieved huff of laughter. 

"What's new?"

He felt himself smiling, even as Mycroft raised his eyebrows - it seemed that the Holmesian trait of disliking what they deemed to be 'unnecessary' emotions was hereditary. 

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I wondered if you would care to take a walk with me."

Greg narrowed his eyes; in his experience neither Holmes brother was this spontaneous - and neither liked winter strolls through the park. 

"What's this about, Mycroft?" The man's innocent pretence was fooling no one, and Greg would rather like to get back to his own moping; he didn't want to deal with another person who disliked Christmas. Mycroft sighed. 

"I would have preferred-"

Greg cut him off: he'd spent enough time around Sherlock to recognise this particular kind of stalling.

"Out with it. Come on, what do you want?" Because he had to want _something_. Greg had no idea what Mycroft actually did, but with Sherlock's dark hints he doubted that this was part of the job description.

"If you are disinclined to allow me to make this visit more pleasant, then at least allow me to enter."

Greg frowned at him, conidering what unpleasantness he was going to be subject to. He decided that the worst would have been to hear that Sherlock was in hospital, so anything else could be dealt with in the warmth of his living room. Greg stepped aside and held the door open, watching Mycroft closely for any clue as to what this was all about. 

He didn't manage to deduce anything - Greg wasn't bloody _Sherlock Holmes_  for God's sake - but he did notice with some surprise that he rather liked the way Mycroft's suit jacket had caught up on his hip, revealing a curve of cream shirt fabric beneath his waistcoat, drawing attention to his waist and long legs. The creases between Greg's eyebrows deepened and he narrowed his eyes at the back of Mycroft, who was disappearing into his living room. He shook his head slowly; what on _Earth_  had come over him? This was Mycroft. Mycroft _Holmes_. Momentary madness passed, Greg hurried to follow his unexpected guest.

He was perched awkwardly on the edge of Greg's sofa, shuffling the pieces of what had been Greg's favourite mug into a pile with a tentative foot.

"So - oh don't worry about that I just. Um. You surprised me." His tone became accusatory, and Mycroft looked like he was restraining himself from rolling his eyes at Greg's inability to observe the obvious with great difficulty. Greg could see the brotherly similarities far too clearly. 

He stooped to grab a paper from the side and started scooping up the shards of china, and Mycroft moved his feet imperiously to allow Greg to reach. Greg was strangely frustrated by Mycroft's lack of concern for this ridiculous situation - after all, no one had invited Mycroft Holmes and his suits and his absolutely _useless_  umbrella to interrupt Greg's day off.

Mycroft's face twitched into what may have been an attempt at a smile, or possibly a grimace. 

"It is about Sherlock, in a way. You must be aware by now of how intelligent my brother is,"

Greg gave a grunt of agreement; he'd realised a long time ago that Sherlock was more than intelligent - the man was a _genius_.

"...and despite this, he manages to get himself into _endless_ scrapes..." Mycroft raised his eyebrows, and Greg grinned in spite of himself, amused that he was not the only one to be constantly exasperated at Sherlock's incapability of funcioning normally.

"... so really, it only makes sense to take precautions such as this,"

Mycroft sounded to Greg as if he was talking himself into something that he didn't really want to say.

"I'd only need to hear from you once a month or so, just often enough to let me know that he's alright." Mycroft's voice had become stern in the delivery of this cryptic message, and Greg imagined that he was used to having his orders followed.

Greg sighed, realising for the first time the full extent of Mycroft's protectiveness over Sherlock. And he had to admit, he was surprised; Mycroft didn't seem like he cared for anyone, but thinking back to that long night a year ago and now, looking up into Mycroft's concerned eyes as he sat there - completely incongruous in Greg's living room - Greg understood that Sherlock was the exception, and he always would be. 

"Ok. So what you're _trying_ to say is that you'd like me to keep an eye on Sherlock for you. Which I have been anyway." Greg thought Mycroft had been making a rather large mountain out of a molehill. Mycroft looked wrong-footed; this was evidently not the reaction he'd been anticipating, and Greg felt strangely satisfied that he'd managed to get one up on this genius. 

"I'd like you to contact me, as I said, regularly, and obviously if anything goes - ah - wrong then I'll need notifying immediately." Mycroft was in a constant flux of business-mode and timid houseguest, which only reinforced Greg's certainty that this was most definitely not Mycroft's area. The poor man had no idea what he was doing, a fact that reassured Greg, who'd been feeling rather intimidated - although he'd never have admitted it - by Mycroft's cool collectedness. 

"Honestly, I'd do that anyway. But yes. 'Course I will." Mycroft looked extremely gratified, and Greg smiled at him. Christmas good deed of the day achieved, but he really wouldn't be doing anything different to usual. Sherlock needed looking out for. And there was something about him that meant Greg didn't mind it falling to him. There would need to be one difference though -

"Can I have your number, then?"

Mycroft started, frowning at him.

"Whatever for?"

Greg rolled his eyes; Mycroft could hardly have looked more apprehensive if Greg had shouted at him. What did he think exchanging phone numbers entailed?

"So I can text you," 

Mycroft stared at him.

"... if something happens to Sherlock!"

The man blinked at him for a fraction of a second, but then his smooth veneer came down again and Greg wasn't sure that he'd ever looked peturbed at the prospect. 

"Of course. Here - " 

Mycroft pulled a luxurious notebook from an inside pocket, extracted the gold pen that was attached, and paused before jotting down a number. It was as if he had to consider for a moment what to write down; as if he had more than one number. 

Greg mentally shook himself - of _course_ a man as ridiculous as Mycroft had more than one phone number, but his momentary indecision had wrong-footed Greg yet again. He wondered if this enigma of a man would ever stop disarming him with every unintentional action. Greg decided that Mycroft was worse than Sherlock.

Attempting to gain some common ground, Greg thanked him and offered him a cuppa. To his surprise, Mycroft looked gratified, and accepted, saying graciously, "That is most thoughtful of you."

Greg felt his language skills shrivelling under Mycroft's eloquence.

"Yeah - well, any time you like." 

He cursed inwardly; now he'd unwittingly provided Mycroft with an open invitation to come over, and he didn't know why that bothered him. The man would never come, anyway. 

They spent an awkward couple of minutes waiting for the kettle to boil, with Greg trying to find something to say that wasn't utterly superficial, and ending up saying nothing. 

He handed a steaming mug to Mycroft, extremely conscious of the garish pattern, and then became aware of the slogan: 'f**k the police'. It had been a belated birthday present from Sally, and Greg usually found it amusing. Not today. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows mutely, and as Greg's cheeks started to redden, Greg wished he'd broken _that_  mug. He laughed, attempting to diffuse the thickness in the air.

"Sorry about that - inside joke,"

Mycroft tilted his head and Greg grinned properly; the whole situation suddenly seemed ridiculously funny. Mycroft lowered his eyebrows a fraction and began to sip his tea, apparantly resigned to the insanity. Greg joined him in companionable silence. Maybe Christmas wasn't so bad after all.


	3. Chapter 3

7:58pm 25/12/2008

 _To Greg_. No, _Gregory._ Myroft narrowed his eyes at the phone. Why was a simple text so difficult to compose? He was Mycroft Holmes, with every emotion carefully utilised to his advantage, and sending a text to Gregory made him nervous, but he wouldn't allow himself to consider the reasons because he knew doing so would have infinitely dangerous consequences. 

Mycroft sighed, deleting the whole message. He had been in meetings all day - international political struggles rarely payed attention to public holidays - and, unusually, he had wound up feeling... well, he didn't know what he was feeling but it unsettled him and sat uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach, and the only thing he really wanted to do was to talk to Gregory. It was frankly ridiculous. He was disgusted at himself.

Outside his office, a car's headlights cut through the inky blackness, catching Mycroft's eye and distracting him. He really ought to be heading home; he had an early start the next morning, something to do with Syria that his PA had put on high importance, and his stomach was angrily making him aware that he hadn't eaten since the digestives that came with his morning coffee. Mycroft shuffled his papers together and shut his laptop with a smart click, cutting out the endless troubles of the crashing diplomatic world that were vying for his attention. 

His thoughts wandered as he checked that everything was in order, glancing at the calendar Andrea had placed on his desk almost a year ago. He'd have to get another one soon. The past year had been politically intense, but no more so than usual, and yet he had found himself feeling slightly - _uncertain_  - on more than one occasion. 

For a man that dealt in secrets certainty had a high price, and Mycroft was used to always having it at his fingertips, but Gregory made him uncertain. He couldn't organise him or file him neatly away in his mind. He was thoroughly incorrigible. Mycroft had all but had enough of this, and the fact that it was taking up more than a second in passing through his incredibly busy mind made him frown.

They had met only a few times over the year; at Sherlock's crime scenes they were united in the inevitable attempt at cleaning up Sherlock's mess, and each time Gregory had grinned at him with his eyes all soft blue and twinkling and it was _possible_ that Mycroft might find the man aesthetically pleasing, but that didn't mean he _liked_ Gregory or anything remotely that embarrassing. He simply appreciated his company, and if he made the place look nicer too then that was an additional benefit.

Mycroft wearily shut the door behind him and raised his eyebrows at his reflection in the hall mirror; who was he kidding? He was _hopelessly_ attracted to Gregory. How inconvenient. He'd have to deal with that somehow. 

Sighing, Mycroft opened the front door and let in a shock of cold December air. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and buried his neck in the collar, wincing as the wind bit his skin. As he walked down the street to where his chauffeur would be waiting - Mycroft never drove unless absolutely necessary - he was so distracted by keeping out the bitter cold that he didn't fully notice the other pedestrian, also muffled against the cold and hurrying in the opposite direction, until it was too late. Mycroft collided with the figure, who in the darkness did not at first seem to recognise him. 

"Hey! Watch where you're going mate!"

"I- you have my sincere apologies." Mycroft was breathless; it was as if his thinking of Gregory had conjured him from the night. 

"Yeah, well next time- _Mycroft?_ " It seemed that Gregory had finally caught up. He gaped at Mycroft, cheeks flushed from the cold.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Gregory frowned. "Don't tell me you're somehow involved in this...?"

Mycroft was, of course, involved in Gregory's current case, and at a much higher level than anyone else he would have come across, but Mycroft considered it imprudent to discuss the level of his involvement in the police's cases. They tended to get rather frustrated with him. Goodness knows why.

"Not intimately. I was simply on my way home." As Gregory was. The smudge beneath each eye betrayed his tiredness, and Mycroft knew that he'd been at the crime scene just a few streets away all day. He may have glanced at the CCTV footage once or twice, just to check. There was nothing wrong with wanting Gregory to be safe. 

Mycroft looked at the man who had fallen into pace with him, and pretended not to notice that Gregory had had to change direction completely to do so. _It doesn't mean anything, Mycroft._ Gregory was frowning, pulling a lip between his teeth. Mycroft clenched his fist around the handle of his umbrella.

Words tumbled from Gregory in an inelegant rush. "Mycroft... D'you want to - maybe - go for dinner somewhere? I'm _starving_ , and if you've finished work, well, it _is_ Christmas." 

Mycroft blinked; Gregory couldn't possibly mean _him_. A man like Gregory would have family, friends, a partner to be with at Christmas - he'd need nothing from Mycroft. This must be a cosmic mistake, and yet a wistful part of Mycroft mourned that which he would never experience. He tried to crush the hope that he could be mistaken; perhaps Gregory wanted to spend time with _him_. Balancing the facts, Mycroft thought it was highly unlikely, but he had to be sure.

"M- me?" He loathed the catch in his throat that had made him stutter. _Mycroft Holmes you're a fool._ What was he thinking? Of course Gregory would never want to have dinner with _him_.

Gregory looked at him, frown deepening, distractingly tounging the bit of lip he'd bitten scarlet. 

"If that's - um, I mean, if you don't want to then that's absolutely fine!" Greg looked mortified. "I'll just, er, go then..."

Mycroft reached out impulsively and grasped his arm, ignoring the sparks that fizzled down his fingers from the points of contact. He couldn't let Gregory leave that easily, even though his mind was screaming at him to take the simple way out. The man who he'd only just admitted to himself that he might like rather a lot had asked him out for dinner. A soft heat rose in Mycroft's stomach; the only person he'd wanted to talk to, and here he was. If Mycroft was the sort of person to believe in religion as more than an unhealthy reliance on the work of another being, he might have put it down to divine intervention. 

As it was, Mycroft pasted on a smile, reminded himself that this was a nice dinner and nothing more - _don't get involved_  - and shook his head.

"No, I'd like that." His voice was softer than he had intended, and he hoped fruitlessly that Gregory hadn't noticed anything amiss. Mycroft looked closely at Gregory, who was practically beaming. Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd had a long day.

"So, uh, there's a pub 'round the corner, it's kind of scruffy but it'll be warm..." Mycroft barely stopped himself from wincing at the word 'pub', but at that moment the prospect of warmth and food appealed above all else, and he thought he could just about put aside any scruples about 'scruffy'. Mycroft shuddered inwardly. Gregory smiled innocently.

"You'll _love_ it!"

Mycroft sometimes thought Gregory was too sarcastic for his own good.

It had started to rain, a chilly sleet drizzle, and Mycroft smugly put up his umbrella. Gregory narrowed his eyes at him. 

"Shut up."

"But I hadn't said anything at all!" 

Gregory made a derisive snort at the back of his throat, and Mycroft grudgingly held his faithful umbrella over the two of them, his heart fluttering in response to Gregory's sudden, unexpected closeness. He concentrated on regulating his heartbeat, and Gregory's grateful glance was wasted on him.

This 'pub' that Gregory had insisted on was too close for Mycroft's liking; he had barely spent five minutes with Gregory's warm side pressed against him, twin streams of breath mingling in the night air, before they arrived at the glowing windows of _The Grasshopper_. A thoroughly ridiculous name. Gregory stepped away to hold open the door for him, a needless but somewhat touching gesture, and Mycroft's arm instantly felt mournfully cold. He shook himself; there was absolutely no way his body could have acclimatised to Gregorys warmth in just a few minutes. 

The pub transpired to be in an exceedingly festive mood, which grated on Mycroft's nerves slightly, but true to Gregory's word it was warm and the food was comforting, if not exactly fine dining. There was holly plastered on every available surface and as Gregory led him to a secluded table, Mycroft wryly considered the possibility of this pub having shares in a tinsel company. Who even had this much sparkle in one room? He turned instead to the menu; this much tasteless glitter was not good for anyone's mood.

They were both so hungry that there was little conversation as soon as their food arrived, steaming and served by a cheerful waiter with - oh fantastic - yet more tinsel around his head. As soon as Mycroft had assured himself that there was no longer a chance of his keeling over from hunger, he sat back contentedly and watched Gregory sip his pint.

Perhaps it was the food, or perhaps the sheer volume of _Christmas_  really had dazzled him, but Gregory looked simply stunning. Mycroft had to avoid his eyes for a moment as he gathered himself. _Stop this Mycroft_. No good would ever come of it.

Gregory put down his beer and smiled.

"So how've you been?"

"Satisfactory, thank you."

Mycroft looked up at a snort from Gregory, whose eyes were twinkling. He tilted his head in bemusement.

"What's so hilarious?"

Gregory gestured vaguely.

"All of this - you. You're so..." He appeared to be searching for the right word.

"...distracting."

Mycroft blinked. That was unexpected. It took a lot to surprise Mycroft Holmes, and Gregory had now managed it several times in this evening alone. He made high-end politics seem like a walk in the park, and if Mycroft had reached the point of using _similies_ then there really was no hope for him. He was doomed, he thought gloomily as the sparkling waiter cleared their plates and presented them with the bill, utterly doomed.

He pulled some notes from his wallet, catching Gregory's eye as they inadvertently mirrored each other. Mycroft swallowed.

"Allow me."

Gregory looked as though he would very much like to protest, and Mycroft snapped his eyes back to fix them on Gregory's stormy brown ones.

"I can pay-"

"I am going to pay, Gregory."

Mycroft's voice was steady and sharply powerful, and he noted the sudden increase in Gregory's breathing rate. He assumed it was in shock at such force, and was irritated at himself; Gregory was not just another ignorant businessman to deal with, but Mycroft knew he had no other setting to fall back on, only reinforcing his certainty that Gregory would never see him even as just a friend. 

But then Gregory did the inexplicable. He smiled.

"Ok Mycroft, have it your way this once. Next time I'll pay. Deal?"

_Next time._

Mycroft opened his mouth, although for once he had no idea what he was going to say. Gregory just shook his head at him and stood up. Reflexively, Mycroft held out Gregory's jacket, and he was startled out of his silence when Gregory shrugged it on and used the momentum to step extremely close to Mycroft, who drew breath sharply through his mouth.

"Gregory-"

But Gregory's eyes were blazing, hot breath tangling harshly with Mycroft's, and then his eyes closed and for a split second Mycroft wondered what was wrong, before Gregory's mouth landed on his.

He gasped into the unfamiliar sensation, Gregory's lips firm and urgent against his, hands tangled in the back of Mycroft's waistcoat, pressing them together at the hips. His chin was rough, and the combination of incredibly soft lips and the rasp of stubble short-circuited Mycroft's brain; he was adrift, and the only thing anchoring him was Gregory's desperate mouth. Mycroft clung helplessly to the collar of Gregory's jacket as the man's mouth opened against his, teasing his lips apart, and then he was tasting the alcohol on Gregory's tongue and everything was hot and urgent and Mycroft hadn't a thought to spare for the other people in the pub.

Gregory pressed impossibly closer, one warm hand slipping up Mycroft's back to cup his neck, tongue simultaneously stroking Mycroft's lip, and Mycroft's sigh was captured in his groping mouth. It was everything Mycroft hadn't allowed himself to want, and he moaned softly, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, but then Gregory tore his mouth away, breathing hard, eyes wild and full of pain. 

"I- God, I'm so sorry!" Gregory panted, hands lingering for a second that Mycroft thought he could have imagined, before whirling around and hurrying away. 

Mycroft stood, stunned. His mouth hurt. His _chest_ hurt _._  How did people live with this? This whole evening was a complete mistake that he'd just have to put aside; Gregory was clearly already regretting it, and yet, as Mycroft made his way back into the cold Christmas night, he couldn't quite disperse the ghost of Gregory's hasty lips on his.

It would prove to be another long Christmas night for Mycroft Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long - I've had mock exams ew. Anyway, thanks for reading guys, and here is the promised blow job - enjoy!

3:54pm 25/12/2009

Greg sighed. Still no word. He paced, compulsively locking and unlocking his phone. There was no logic to his checking for messages every five minutes - Mycroft would have scoffed at him - but he couldn't help hoping; every Christmas for several years now had brought with it a tall, somewhat gingery man who made Greg's heart beat faster; so come on Father Christmas, he thought wildly, keep up the good work. 

He forced himself to sit down, flicking through the Christmas TV guide, mind far away from the small black print.  _One year ago today_. It was exactly a year since he'd made a terrible mistake. Greg didn't regret asking Mycroft out for dinner, in fact he was rather proud that he'd finally bucked up the courage; Mycroft was equal parts devestatingly attractive and thoroughly terrifying, but if _only_  he hadn't gone and ruined everything. 

Greg had thought the evening was going surprisingly well, and then Mycroft had been the ridiculous gentleman that he was and Greg hadn't been able to stop himself. He closed his eyes wearily and dropped his head to his hands.

Their meetings after that had been fraught with tension, and Greg knew that Mycroft could read him like a book.

_How he must laugh at you, and your petty emotions._

Greg shuddered; Mycroft would say it just like that, his ridiculously distracting mouth quirking into a smirk. He couldn't let himself think like this, but there was still a part of him that hoped despite everything, and the sooner he got rid of that the better.

He groaned and put down his phone for the umpteenth time. If only the man could have just _called_  like any sane individual, then they could have sorted this out _months_

ago. Greg would have apologised and assured Mycroft it meant nothing - _liar_  - and their hesitant friendship could have continued. Now Greg didn't dare meet his eyes in fear of seeing nothing but scorn there, and yet here he was on Christmas day _willing_  his phone to buzz.

It started to vibrate. 

Greg jumped, then scooped it up hastily.

**Mycroft is in Russia.**

**Stop moping, it's embarrassing.**

**\- S.H.**

Greg stared at the text, incredulous frown forming;  _Sherlock!_ Trust him to somehow have deduced, God knows how - probably from Greg's posture or something equally incomprehensible - exactly what Greg had been feeling all year. He sighed; it wasn't worth trying to keep anything from Sherlock. _Or Mycroft._

Greg sighed again, replacing his head in his hands. Then it hit him. Russia. Mycroft could be doing _anything_ and Greg would have no idea. Anything could happen to him out there. 

Greg didn't know why it bothered him, _you only snogged the man once for goodness sake_ , but he couldn't help it. He wished Mycroft was in England. He wished Mycroft was with him this very second, so he could hold on to that bloody _hot_  waistcoat and never let go and tell him- But what would he tell him? 

_You're a good kisser._

_I like your waistcoat._

_This is all a terrible mistake._

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to stop the film that was playing behind his eyelids. Mycroft, gasping as their lips fell together; Mycroft, telling Sherlock off for caring; Mycroft, stuck in the dark somewhere in Russia, beautiful and alone. 

He swallowed drily. Whatever Mycroft's elusive job title may be, Greg knew that the man might not be safe. He seemed to be involved in every shady government plot, and as much as Greg was sure it was all done for the country's own good, he wished Mycroft could have had a _safer_  profession. 

He stood up suddenly; there was absolutely no sense in moping and, as Sherlock had so kindly informed him, it was embarrassing. Greg was a grown man now, not a schoolboy with a crush. He'd had a moment of insanity a year ago, and it seemed he hadn't yet recovered. _He can't be_  that _good a kisser._  Greg threw his phone resolutely onto the table, assuring himself for the hundredth time that he felt nothing for Mycroft Holmes. Absolutely nothing. 

But what was he doing in Russia? Greg was halfway out of his door, one arm hastily looped through the sleeve of his jacket, before he had fully decided where he was going. He just had to get out. Greg was running away from half-formed worries about Mycroft - turning to the bitter wind to blow Mycroft from his mind.

_Blow Mycroft._  For Greg's own sanity, those two words should not come anywhere near each other. There was no way he was allowing himself to further justify Sherlock's embarrassment, as much as embarrassing Sherlock had become a rather entertaining hobby of his.

He ducked out of his porch and clattered down the stairs, momentarily blinded by the sunset as he tugged open the front door, and shrugged his jacket on hastily against the cold. 

He set off briskly for his local park; a green haven in the midst of the bustling centre of London. Greg smiled at the sunset, resolving that he should try and walk here more in the coming year; it really did clear his mind of- Oh. Mycroft.

It wasn't so much that he was abroad, but that Greg hadn't known that was bothering him. Anything could happen to Mycroft and who'd think to let him know? Would Sherlock? 

_Mycroft wouldn't tell you anyway._

Greg's steady pace faltered, dully aware of the cold as the last light faded from the sky. He turned reluctantly to head back to his flat, his sigh swept away in the wind.

The road that led to Greg's flat was a somewhat scruffily patched together collection of Victorian buildings and much more modern additions, that Greg rather liked. It was comfortingly ordinary in its random nature, and Greg fell into a gentle stroll, allowing himself to appreciate the normality of life; this street had stood so much, it had not been shaken by the thought of Mycroft, and neither would he be.

Greg turned the corner onto his road, blinking in the sudden glow of a street lamp, and his breath caught. A man was standing, silhouetted in the dusk, hovering on the pavement outside his door, and it had to be Greg's imagination that was conjuring the familiar achingly long legs, the haughty head tilt. 

Mycroft stood, silent, as Greg lengthened his stride and paced towards him.

Greg's eyes widened in disbelief as he fully recognised the man in front of him. But it was so thoroughly unexpected that Greg still half-thought he must be dreaming.

"Mycroft-"

The name was a gasp and Greg shut his mouth hastily, hoping Mycroft hadn't heard.

"I- I must admit I had not considered that you would return so quickly..."

Mycroft's voice was smooth but he shuffled slightly, clearly about to vanish into the dark as if he really had been a part of Greg's imagination. Greg gestured to the door hastily. 

"Come inside."

Greg was too distracted to notice the slight raise of Mycroft's eyebrows in response to this, admittedly more of an order than a polite invitation. He was trying not to consider the miracle of Mycroft, safe and outside his flat, but surprised to run into Greg. He'd caught the man off guard for once, he thought with relish, ushering Mycroft up the stairs in front of him.

_That was a mistake_. Greg's eyes were level with the base of Mycroft's expensively suited back, and he tried in vain to push down the flush that mutinously threatened to bloom in his cheeks. He swallowed, fixing his eyes on the carpeted stairs at his feet. 

Mycroft stopped outside his door, and there was an awkward moment whilst Greg shuffled around Mycroft, consciously holding his body away from the man who was standing _far too close._

He fumbled with the key, and heard Mycroft sigh at his shoulder, a quietly judgemental breath that made Greg frown. Who was Mycroft to come gliding into Greg's life, just close enough to make him ache for more, and then to judge his _door opening_ , for God's sake. He'd had just about enough of this, and it was time he got himself an explanation. Turning to Mycroft, arms crossed, Greg was suddenly filled with irrational anger at the ridiculous man standing before him.

"What're you-"

"Gregory,"

Mycroft cut him off cooly,

"I would have told you if I could have. There's no point getting angry."

Mycroft's calm collectedness did nothing to stop Greg's blood boiling; if anything his slight smile fed the flames. Greg folded his arms more tightly, crushing against his tight chest, trying to reign in his unexpected anger.

"Friends tell each other. If they're going somewhere." Greg frowned, suddenly finding it difficult to get the words past the constriction in his throat.

"Otherwise they'll... worry." He tailed off, almost whispering now as he blinked at the floor. Worrying. Had he really been worried?

Mycroft looked at him, inscrutable as ever, head tilted slightly as he leaned on his precious umbrella. Greg hated the thing. Mycroft was closer to that bloody umbrella than anyone else. Ridiculous man. Ridiculous _beautiful_ man. Greg held his breath, suddenly overwhelmed. 

"Friends."

Mycroft sounded faintly shocked, and the surprise at causing this reaction made Greg look up hastily.

"Are we friends, Gregory?"

And Mycroft shouldn't be able to do those things to him just by saying his name but suddenly all those weeks of silently admiring his slender legs as they walked away, always leaving him behind, all those nights alone trying to stop himself thinking of the man in front of him crashed through some invisible damn inside Greg and he bit his lip to contain the weight of the emotion.

He raised his eyes again, hardly daring to breathe, and found himself much closer to Mycroft than he had intended. Greg let his gaze wander over the dusting of freckles across Mycroft's nose, trailing down to slowly come to rest on that exquisite mouth.

Greg's eyes widened as Mycroft licked his lips, subconsciously echoing the man who was now... was he...

Mycroft smiled as he lowered his lips to Greg's and slowly, so tantalisingly slowly, pressed the gentlest of kisses to his lower lip. 

Greg felt Mycroft's smile against the sensitive skin, and his mouth fell open in a ragged gasp.

"Mycroft-"

"Shh."

His mouth was on Greg's, breathing into him, dissolving the words that tried to form, and Mycroft's breath was like honey as it filled Greg's mouth with sweet warmth. Then Mycroft's hand was at his waist and he was being pulled towards the man whose toungue had just swirled into Greg's mouth, and Greg just stared into Mycroft's eyes, deep pools of desire fixed upon his own, the moment stretching and shrinking between them until he couldn't take it any more. 

He pressed impossibly closer, pinning Mycroft roughly against the closed door as he pushed the man's jacket away, delighting in the sharp intake of breath that tangled with his own. There was still far too much between them, but Mycroft slid his hands beneath Greg's t-shirt as Greg shrugged off his own jacket, and the smooth meeting of skin sent shivers up his back and down his arms that shook as he pulled Mycroft's waistoat apart, biting down on Mycroft's lip.

Capturing Mycroft's gasp between his lips, their teeth clashed, and it was messier than Greg had ever imagined but _oh_  so much more real. He could feel Mycroft's heart racing through the thin fabric of his shirt, he was tasting the cool sweetness of Mycroft's coffee-toothpaste breath, and then he could see the flush rising in his pale cheeks as - _dear God this was too much -_  Mycroft's hand stroked its way towards the front of Greg's old jeans, leaving Greg's skin tingling in its wake. And all at once Mycroft was pushing himself up against Greg, arching desperately into his hands, and his mouth was burning kisses down Greg's neck, and Greg had no idea whose hands were unzipping whose trousers, but suddenly his head was spinning and his heart was thumping wildly as Mycroft stroked his cock with expert precision. 

Greg's mouth fell open; this man was _good_. But of course Mycroft Holmes wouldn't have let sex escape his skill set. If Greg hadn't been quite so distracted, he would have found this irrationally irritating - the man just had to be _perfect_  didn't he? As it was, all he could do was gasp and try to hold himself back from the inevitable - just the smooth touch of Mycroft's hand on his cock was almost enough to make him come, but he wanted to touch Mycroft _so badly._

"S-stop - _oh God_. Mycroft!" 

Greg pulled his mouth from its exploration of the man's jawline, even though he thought he could never spend enough time mapping every contour, and looked at him with pleading eyes.

"Let me." 

Mycroft blinked, eyes still blown wide from arousal, as Greg dropped to his knees in front of him, hands slipping to cup Mycroft's hips but still pressing him firmly against the door. Looking up through his lashes, Greg was struck by how insane the whole situation was; lofty, untouchable Mycroft was there, gasping Greg's name as his cock tented his posh trousers. Greg grinned, and took the zip between his teeth, _nothing to lose now_ , breathing in the delicious heat as he slowly drew open Mycroft's trousers.

Mycroft gaped at him, caught out and _completely_  stunning. Greg mouthed at the fabric of Mycroft's boxers, tasting the evidence of his desire. _You do mean something to him at least_. Enough for a shag anyway, and right now that was Greg's first priority. 

He carefully freed Mycroft's cock and, all his slow teasing suddenly too much, took the whole thing in his mouth. Mycroft gasped out loud, hands gripping Greg's hair desperately, and Greg circled his tongue appreciatively - it was intensely satisfying to draw such a spontaneous noise from the most planned man he'd ever met.

"Gregory!" Mycroft breathed, "I- I find myself - _Gregory_  - unable to form co- coherent sentences. "

Greg laughed around the heavy length of Mycroft in his mouth, humming as Mycroft gasped at the sensation; only he would use the word _coherent_ during sex.

Hands still at Mycroft's hips, Greg twirled his tongue, hollowing his cheeks and sucking until he _felt_ him reaching the edge. Mycroft's hands twisted tighter in Greg's hair and his quiet moans pulled Greg just as close - _was Mycroft trying to be quiet?_  The thought pulsed straight to his cock.

Mycroft came with a shuddering sigh that shook his whole body, and Greg swallowed carefully and relaxed his hold on Mycroft's hips as the man sank boneless to the floor between Greg's knees. 

" _Gregory._ "

The gasp of his name, accompanied by a single, surprisingly firm stroke of Mycroft's hand, was the last straw. Greg kissed Mycroft without wiping his mouth; he - rather posessively -wanted Mycroft to taste himself in his mouth. So he kissed him, crushing away the doubts that lingered, the impossibility of any happy ending, concentrating instead on the softness of Mycroft's lips and the speed of his breathing, his chest rising and falling that _perfectly_   matched against his own and Greg was lost. 

The world was many things to Greg Lestrade. It was often disappointing, sometimes exciting, but never more beautiful than in the moment that his eyes squeezed closed and he felt Mycroft's hands gently cupping his face. The world splintered into stardust as he came with one name on his lips, only to be kissed away by its owner.

"Merry Christmas, Gregory."

Mycroft smiled sadly and pulled away, thumb lingering to stroke Greg's lower lip. 

"Don't go-" The words left Greg without his violation, but he was powerless to stop them. He thought he might possibly never move again, and then Mycroft held out his hand and they stood up together, stepping clear of the tangled mess of clothes and sex. Greg allowed himself to be led to his bedroom, following Mycroft mutely. _I'll go wherever you lead._ Mycroft sat down on Greg's unmade bed and Greg pulled him into lying down next to him.

They lay on top of the covers, still holding hands, and when Greg at last broke the silence, saying simply, 

"You're beautiful," Mycroft blushed and dipped his head into the covers, but he tangled his feet with Greg's.

Greg shuffled closer, until his legs were between Mycroft's longer ones and their noses were touching. He breathed Mycroft's sigh as his eyes fluttered closed. 

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a year coming, and what a year it's been! I'd like to thank you all for your lovely messages and support, you're the reason I've finally published this chapter! 
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> (The first part of this continues straight from the last chapter - well, after one night - because I couldn't resist writing their morning after!)
> 
> Enjoy...

26/12/2009

Mycroft sighed as he woke up, stretching his arms above his head, and- oh. He wasn't in his own bed. This was somewhat unexpected. He instinctively curled around the comforting warmth beside him, and then straightened out rapidly as he realised what it was. Or rather, who it was; Gregory. He was in bed with Gregory, and stating the facts to himself didn't make the reality any more comprehensible.

He rolled over, remembering the night before, and smiling at Gregory's sleeping form as he carefully propped himself up on his elbow. Mycroft wouldn't dare do that whilst Gregory was awake, but why shouldn't he? Lying there next to him, Mycroft felt all the restraint of the past three years crumbling around him, and the most dangerous thing was that _he didn't care._

Mycroft leant down until his lips were level with Gregory's ear, full of daring self-confidence.

"Gregory Lestrade, I-"

And then Gregory sighed and rolled onto his side, opening his eyes with a yawn. Their gazes met, fondly colliding, and Mycroft's heart clenched. _You should go_. But at that moment his limbs seemed incapable of movement, so he just gazed at Gregory as the man ran a hand contentedly through his hair. He expected Gregory to sit up and swing his frankly gorgeous legs over the side of the bed, politely implying that it was time to leave, but instead the wonderfully inexplicable man reached out and gently stroked Mycroft's jaw.

He held his breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Gregory's fingers idly traced across Mycroft's cheek, and Mycroft thought he detected a flicker of hesitance before they lightly settled on his lower lip.

"Gregory-"

Mycroft opened his eyes as Gregory lauged breathily. His fingers slipped from Mycroft's lip and Mycroft mourned their loss until he felt them on his chin, carefully lifting it until their faces were level.

"' _Gregory_?'" he imitated, and Mycroft smiled fondly. So they were going to have this discussion now? He didn't really know why he persisted in calling Gregory by his full name. Well, actually, he did. Mycroft didn't think 'Greg' quite covered all he wanted to say to Gregory, all he meant to him. He thought Gregory's name should be longer, special, and unique from what everyone else called him - because Gregory was special, and so _incredibly_  different from anyone Mycroft had ever met.

But he couldn't possibly admit as much, so he shrugged and, hoping his voice wouldn't give away too much, simply said:  
"Gregory. It is your name, after all."

"Yeah but still-" Gregory laughed again, lips parted as he shuffled closer to Mycroft, and then it was Mycroft's turn to laugh as Gregory gently rubbed their noses together. It tickled. He wrinkled his nose, eyes creasing in a helpless giggle, before he chastised himself: Mycroft Holmes does not _giggle_. What a ridiculous notion.

Mycroft started to turn his face away from Gregory and his delighted expression - later, Gregory would goad him relentlessly, he was sure - but he was stopped by a warm palm at his cheek. Mycroft blinked as Gregory cupped his face, and his eyes were inevitably drawn to Gregory's tongue as it swept across his lips, before his vision was obscured as Gregory pressed their mouths together. He kissed him gently, and Mycroft felt the sigh against his lips as Gregory realised he wouldn't pull away, and echoed it himself when he found that he couldn't.

  
***

8:40am 25/12/2010

Mycroft still couldn't pull away from Gregory when he lay next to him. His morning breath and sleepy eyes and awkwardly angled limbs were all nothing new by now, but every time he woke up to them Mycroft felt like pinching himself. He'd never been so lucky in his life, and it had to be luck; no sane logic could explain the gorgeous creases around Gregory's eyes as he smiled, nor the way it made Mycroft's stomach flip and cheeks redden, and he couldn't bring himself to miss a moment.

That was why, he told himself, he hadn't woken Gregory up yet. It was Christmas morning, and he and Gregory had the whole day to do - he wasn't sure actually, what did couples do at Christmas? He assumed sex would be involved, but then it usualy was; Mycroft had never met anyone who aroused him quite as much as Gregory did, and by just _sitting there_! It really became quite cumbersome when they shared a car to work.  
So Mycroft had no qualms about leaving Gregory asleep, except that he didn't want the day to begin. For once in his life, far from wanting the _tediously_ slow world to speed up to meet him, Mycroft was content to allow himself to drift. He frowned. _Pull yourself together._

Gregory stirred, dragging a hand to rest by his face, and Mycroft smiled at him. It was becoming far easier to smile for real, he noted with some interest, now that he had Gregory to return the gesture. He touched their lips together on impulse, a light brush that he thought wouldn't be enough to fully wake Gregory.

"Mmmm... Mycroft," Gregory mumbled, still half asleep, and shuffled into another kiss. Mycroft leant into his sleepy warmth, tangling their feet together under the covers. Gregory's arm draped itself across his waist as Mycroft layed a hand on his smooth chest, and Gregory's old t-shirt felt like silk under his fingers as Mycroft traced around his heart.  
Gregory smiled, eyes still closed, and Mycroft carefully pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"It's Christmas day!" Gregory sounded surprised. Mycroft allowed his hand to creep slowly down Gregory's chest, across his stomach, to the hem of the t-shirt that really was not required.

"So it is." He replied, as his fingertips brushed over the soft hair at Gregory's navel. The man drew breath gently, then faster as Mycroft pulled his shirt off. It caught on his chin and Mycroft huffed as Gregory giggled, wiggling his face free.

Mycroft smiled grudgingly as their mouths brushed together, fitting a hand behind Gregory's head and pulling him into sitting. He sat back and gazed in appraisal at the man, who, still flushed from sleep, was biting his lip irresistibly as his fingers brushed- oh! Mycroft gasped hollowly as Gregory gently stroked up his thighs towards his rapidly hardening cock.

"Good morning," Gregory's murmers were sleep-deepened and a responding heat steadily grew in Mycroft's stomach. He darted his toungue out, unconsciously, and Gregory lent over and kissed his now damp bottom lip. The skin of Gregory's lips was slightly chapped but the toungue that pressed against his own was warm and soft and he sighed into the kiss as it deepened, hands now achingly familiar as their bodies fit together perfectly, bare skin skating across skin, and Mycroft was breathless, moaning, kissing every inch of Gregory until he gasped, head thrown back, and Gregory's name was on his tongue as he came.

They lay in silence for what could have been a second, or possibly several thousand years. Mycroft found he didn't really care about such mundane matters as time when he had Gregory tucked into his chest, his hands tracing lazy circles along the arms that enclosed him in... He sighed in resignation. They were cuddling.

"Merry Christmas," Gregory was smiling like the metaphorical cat with the cream, and Mycroft was too far gone to berate himself for using such a ridiculous figure of speech. He sank into Gregory's warm chest, twining their legs together, pulling them impossibly closer.

"Merry Christmas," he replied, and for what seemed like the first time ever, he actually meant it.

Gregory smiled blissfully at him, and Mycroft grinned back, hopelessly in love and utterly unwilling to pretend otherwise. After all, he justified, it _was_ Christmas. Mycroft could attest with near complete certainty that this was the best Christmas ever, and the knowledge of the present he had for Gregory made the champagne-fizz feeling in his chest buzz warmly.

_Might as well try now_.

He took a deep breath, happy bubbles spreading, and fixed Gregory with a determined gaze that was very used to getting its own way.

"You're moving in. With me. If- uh- if you want to..."

His words faltered as Gregory's smile grew, his heart swelling in his throat. The responding _yes - oh yes_ was silent, mouthed into his lips as they kissed, and Mycroft could just imagine the next Christmas, and the one after that, and he promised himself that he would have Gregory beside him for all of them.

_Sentimental, Mycroft._

But for once he ignored that little voice inside his marvellous brain, and just allowed Gregory to hold him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally made this fic as a present for a wonderful, amazing girl who is now my girlfriend! So, you see, things will work out. 
> 
> Thank you for everything love xx


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